Prompted
by keepfabandgayon
Summary: A series of Hetalia oneshots written for prompts.
1. USxUK Churchill's Quote

It seemed like every time England met with his boss, he came out of it either angry or, more often, blushing. He was always alluding to things that weren't even legal, much less something acceptable to joke about. _I swear, if I have to hear him say "Special Relationship" one more time I'm going to tear out his voice box and feed it to him. _

There was nothing like that going on between himself and America. He had told as much to Churchill, and was always given the simple rejoinder of "Do you want there to be?"

That was usually when England ran out of the room -- normally into some government official or other -- with a quick apology and a hand over his face. It was more of an admission than words could give, and he knew it, but it was better than having as awkward a conversation as would result with his boss. _"Yes, I'm a homosexual. Please don't send me to an insane asylum." _

Churchill had kept the phrase between the two of them for a few years, and England was fine with that. Of course he'd rather the phrase had never been thought of in the first place, but it was better than nothing. But then he had decided to say it in _public_. England almost didn't go to the next meeting he had with America. But America hadn't said anything. He had just looked at England when he arrived (an hour late) with a look that suggested he was surprised that he had shown up at all, and then just inserted himself into the conversation. Their bosses whispered something to each other, lost over America's shouting. England only saw the looks on their faces, and that was enough for him to know that he most assuredly did not want to know what was said.

America had heard, obviously, when he choked in the middle of a sentence – something he never did without a burger in his mouth – and tried to pass of his bright red face and coughing fit with "Just forgot to breathe, I'm fine!" He rambled on without a pause, but when four o' clock came around and the bosses started shaking hands and saying their goodbyes, America just waved and shouted "Bye!" as he ran out the door.

England stayed behind, even after their bosses had left and the cleaning ladies had come in and asked how long he would be in there. He wanted to make sure that America didn't have any ideas about staying behind to talk to him.

Eventually England wandered over to the bay widow and sat down on the cushions spread out on it. He looked out over the pristine streets of – what city had America dragged them all too again? – and compared it to his own home. America wasn't still cleaning up destruction. Not here, at least. Was that why he was so happy all the time -- because he didn't have to suffer through the same pain that all of Europe had --?

He looked down at the entrance area directly below. America was still there, sitting on a bench, waving at the odd person that walked by. It didn't surprise him. He still had that ridiculous smile on his face, never betraying that he had been wearing the same smile ten years earlier, during the first battle he fought in WWII alongside England; or nearly thirty years earlier, when he and England hauled soldiers up out of a trench about to fill with poison gas, or nearly a hundred and eighty years earlier –

England shuddered.

_No, he would have been like this anyways. _

England felt like a stalker. He dismissed the feeling; it had been a long time since he gave a damn about what was legal or not. He left the room and took the long way out. When he reached the entrance, America was still there, this time petting someone's dog, talking to its owner. England stayed inside, watching America through the glass doors.

The owner left with his dog, jogging down the street together. America smiled as they left, then almost instantly turned his face to a sobered look, and turned his eyes to the ground. England barely noticed himself run out the door, and neither did America, who didn't even see England until the older man was directly in front of him and casting a shadow on his feet. America stood.

The two walked down the street in silence. England vaguely registered that they passed his hotel, but didn't really care. They kept walking and ended up at a harbor; England remembered it was Boston.

Standing there with America gave England a feeling he hadn't had since America was half his height. Not quit happiness; just a contented feeling. If he couldn't have America back as before – and by this point, he didn't even want to anymore, America was much better off free – then this was enough. Eventually they'd become friends. England didn't know what to call what they had now. With a small smile he realized that Churchill's choice of words described them as well as any words could. They weren't friends, but they were more than acquaintances, and definitely not enemies. Just a relationship, and a special one at that.

The next time Churchill asked England, "Do you want there to be?" England just responded, "Does it matter?"

It wasn't a no (because yes, England did want it), but it wasn't a yes (because England wanted what was best for America, too). Churchill just smiled. He understood.

--

Notes:

-Set around 1954-55, near the end of Churchill's time as PM.

-I don't know if Churchill ever met with any president in Boston. Do not take it as fact.

-America's boss is not named for 2 reasons: a) I am lazy and b) it's from England's POV and I didn't think it fit.

-At the time, homosexuality was considered a psychological disorder. It was also illegal in England until 1967.

-This whole fic was a mixture of two possible topics I had picked for a research assignment for my final paper: The Special Relationship and the Gay Rights Movement. All historical info is taken from by good frienemy Wikipedia since I haven't actually done any real research yet.


	2. USxUK Lifeline

_There's a field near the dream_

_I watched it grow with brightest eyes_

_I watched us all reach out and leave_

_For the strength as we touched the sky_

_If you hear a distant sound_

_That's my footsteps by your side_

_If you feel like coming 'round_

_I will take you for a ride_

_---_

_America saw his life as a field. _

_It was not a straight line, or a sidewalk, or some sort of blanket woven by the Fates. If anything, America's life was a circle. He certainly felt like he was going around in circles half his life. And he knew as well as any other country that his life would continue as a circle until someone came and cut it. _

_So, a round field then. _

_His field constantly grew, with flowers and plants from all over the world, because that's what he was. He was made up of people from all over the world. It was always spring in his field, because everyone would always have the opportunity to better themselves, whether they took that opportunity or not. _

_The field was a beautiful green anywhere where there wasn't a bright flower. There was a stream running through the field, and the soil soaked up the water well enough that, under normal conditions, no human would ever need to water the field. _

_Sometimes there were droughts, though. Sometimes the field needed help to grow. But the flowers would always come back. America's field would spring back up, just like him. _

_Recently, there had always been a person in his field. He couldn't imagine his field without England anymore. England caring for the flowers, England walking, England sitting, England England England. He'd never admit to it, even though they'd been together for years. He suspected England already knew how much America thought about him, how hopelessly in love he was. _

_America was always happy and eccentric, not just to get attention from the whole world, but to get England's attention, more than anyone else's. He reflected that in his field; when England went near the flowers, they all turned to him, like sunflowers to the sun, and he looked back. England was the center of his world, the center of his field. _

_England would always be the one watering his field during the droughts – whether England helped America through depressions or not, he would always be there. He would still lift America up, even if he had to drag him out of bed, pulling Nantucket until America couldn't feel his headache anymore. _

_The grass of the field was the green of England's eyes, watched over by the sky blue of America's. He wondered if his dream England realized the symbolism of that. England, in America's dreams of the field, would seem to love being near the stream. All of the newest flowers would come in that way, and spread from there. England seemed to like to watch the spread of life, watch the constantly moving water and the fish swimming happily within. _

_America loved his diverse culture. It was part of who he was. But he always felt a special attachment to what he had gained from England. Maybe he was biased – no, he definitely was. But America didn't care. If his supposed-to-be-objective news reporters could be biased (and they always were) then he could be a little biased without regrets. _

_America didn't mind going around in circles with his life if he could do it with England. As long as it never had to end. _

"Alfred? What are you thinking about?"

"Hm? Who says I'm thinking about anything?"

"I smelled something burning."

"I think that's your cooking."

Arthur turned red with irritation. Alfred laughed; he would have to work that color into his field. It had been a while since he had added any new roses; maybe he could find some English breed in that color…

"Answer my question, Alfred." Arthur crossed his arms and tapped his foot impatiently.

Alfred just smiled and looked out at the water. He had rented a boat and taken Arthur out around the Jersey Shore. Prior to the trip Alfred had told Arthur to forget anything he had heard on TV about New Jersey, not because it wasn't true (because a lot of it was), but because there were some pretty OK things about the state. Like, for one, being on a boat, out at sea, under the stars, with his favorite person in the world.

Arthur huffed and went to the front of the boat. He sat down and looked out at the sparkling water. Alfred smiled fondly, watching Arthur from behind, then went and joined him.

He sat down and wrapped his arms around Arthur, then rested his own head on top of his. They stayed like that for a few moments, then Arthur turned around and hugged Alfred back, sighing.

"I was thinking about you," Alfred finally responded.

Arthur nodded. "I know. You were staring at me the whole time."

"I love you."

Arthur nodded and leaned into Alfred, resting his head against the American's broad chest. He squeezed Alfred tightly, as if he never wanted to let go. "I love you too."

--

Notes: None this time.


	3. USxUK Tourists

"What are we doing in Greece?" Alfred proudly displayed his lack of geography skills, and didn't even notice the large family that all promptly stopped talking upon hearing him, just to glare.

Arthur joined them in glaring "Idiot. This isn't Greece, it's Cyprus."

"So it's Turkey, then?"

Arthur didn't hesitate to smack his head. "You're lucky I'm here." He nodded to the family. "They'd have given you plenty worse."

"Wha-?"

"Cyprus is its own country, idiot! The northern part is _occupied_ by Turkey. The Greek Cypriots hate the Turks."

"How do you know so much about this country?"

"I owned it."

Alfred stopped mid-step. "Oh." Realizing that England wasn't going to be stopping anytime soon, he jogged to catch up with him. "So do you know this much about every country you used to own?"

"You'd ask that. Yes, I do. Flattered?"

Alfred grinned. "'Course. Why d'you think I asked? Ooh, kitty!"

Arthur sighed as Alfred ran towards the cat, effectively scaring it away. "What an amazing attention span you have," he said upon Alfred's return. "Way to ruin the moment."

Alfred shrugged. "That's what I'm here for. Oh, and the food."

"Is that so? Then I hope you enjoy a cold bed." Arthur kept walking.

"Aww, c'mon!" Alfred caught up quickly. "You know I was kidding."

"Oh, do I? Now stop acting like we're home. We're tourists, we have to keep up the act. Where's your camera?" Arthur adjusted the wide hat on his head.

"Right here!" Alfred produced a large, professional-looking digital camera and a collapsible tripod out of the depths of his backpack.

"Alright. Let's get started."

--

Several hours and two memory sticks of photos later, the pair found themselves at a family-owned Greek taverna. They had picked up Cyprus himself along the way, who, after complaining about the two Anglophones' tourists in his country, proceeded to introduce the two of them to Zivania. Cyprus (or, as they called him in front of the citizens, Kypros) had an impressive tolerance for the stuff, and was still going strong after Alfred attempted Greek dancing and Arthur was bitching about whatever came to mind and talking to his "imaginary friends", followed by both passing out.

Kypros had managed to get the camera away from Alfred without his notice, and, after about ten minutes of trying to figure out how to turn the damn thing on and get the first memory stick in, started flipping through the photos. There were a few pictures that seemed to have been taken in England at the Heathrow airport, and the next ten or so were in the Larnaca airport. These pictures were all of Arthur, or of the two of them.

Several were taken in the hotel room – that new hotel in Limassol that Kypros had refused to use his Unofficial Cypriot Discount to book for them – and Kypros very quickly came upon a couple of pictures that he would much rather have never seen.

The rest of the memory card was filled with pictures of ruins or beaches or even the odd group of tourists or citizens here and there. Kypros, being Cyprus himself, knew that he felt much more proud of his history than most of his citizens, and appreciated the many pictures of them. He even saw things he hadn't seen since the seventies – pictures of up north, where Turkey wasn't allowing him to go anymore, but Alfred and Arthur could obviously come and go as they pleased. Kypros suspected Alfred had let him have the camera so easily for a reason; to show him what he was missing out on.

He switched out the memory card for the second one, marked "Iggy's pics". It started out much the same as the first had ended; with ruins and beaches, and then one of a sleeping Alfred, mouth wide open and face sunburned, buried neck-to-feet in sand. Looking closer, Kypros observed how little Arthur's personality had changed from when Cyprus was a British territory – there were two very large mounds of sand over Alfred's chest, with a starfish on each, and a clump of seaweed over where Alfred's crotch would be. He suppressed a laugh, trying not to wake the drunken Brit next to him, as if the sound of a laugh added to the loud Greek bouzouki music would be the straw that broke the donkey's metaphorical back.

Kypros assumed he had found the two not long after this picture was taken. Alfred had still been sunburned and covered in sand when he found the two of them with their chairs comically facing in opposite directions, both with the same angry expression on their faces.

There was only one picture left. It was dark and blurry, and in the dim light of the tavern Kypros could barely make it out. It was a complete opposite from the sand-covered, comically sunburned Alfred from before; this time, Alfred was asleep on Kypros's guest room bed, after Kypros had let the two shower at his house. This time he was not snoring as he had on the beach, and he just looked peaceful.

Hm. Peaceful. Now there was a thought.

--

Notes: Wheeeeee I finally got to use my Cyprus OC!

-"Kypros" is Greek for Cyprus, and is also a moderately common Greek name.

-Cyprus was part of the British Empire until 1960.

-Please note that this is NOT the canon Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus character. This character represents the entire island of Cyprus, but still has all the restrictions on where he can go on his island as any Cypriot would have, as in, he can't go into the occupied area in the north.

-Cypriots hate tourists, even though the Cypriot economy would basically be shit without them. Cypriots can sometimes get discounts on hotel rooms (though it's not official and I doubt they're actually supposed to).

-Zivania: It looks like water. It's not water. It's a spirit that's pretty much 200 proof alcohol.

-Taverna: Not to be confused with a tavern, it is a small Greek restaurant.

-Bouzouki: It's a Greek instrument. I call it "The Greek Banjo."


	4. USxUK Adventure

When Alfred was ten years old, his parents adopted another boy into their family.

Alfred's mother had never become pregnant again after Alfred was born. His mother had had no complications during birth with his older brother, Matthew, but with Alfred she had. He was born four months premature, and almost died during his birth. For his mother's safety and for the safety of unborn babies, the doctors asked that she not have another child.

But she had always wanted to have three children.

Most children, if they wanted a sibling, wanted a younger one. But Alfred liked being the youngest. He wanted an older brother. He loved Matthew, he really did, but Matt was only a year older and had never been much of a "big brother" figure. If anything, they acted like twins all the time. They even had birthday parties together, since their birthdays were so close. Alfred and Matthew both agreed that they wanted someone they could look up to aside from their parents.

So Arthur had been adopted. Then twelve years old, the British boy had found it difficult to assimilate into their family. He had always been given a hard time by the other children at his orphanage – he wasn't manly enough, strong enough, athletic enough, and the other boys and girls took advantage of him. He had acted closed-off from the rest of the family at first, and had been the "bad kid," getting in trouble constantly at school, normally for getting into fights with the French exchange student, Francis.

Somewhere along the line, he had calmed down, and become an entirely different person. It seemed to Alfred that Arthur just came home from school one day and, instead of slamming the front door and stomping up to his room, he sat down next to Alfred and Matthew and started to talk to them.

Later that night, Alfred had whispered to Matthew about Arthur's sudden change in character, but Matt just passed it off as "He probably got a girlfriend!"

Alfred assumed he was right. Arthur seemed to get happier and happier, spending much of his at-home time with Alfred and Matthew, teaching them how to play soccer (or, as he called it, football) and, as they got tall enough to use the stove, how to cook. Arthur wasn't the best cook – nine out of ten times he burned whatever he was cooking – but when he didn't turn perfectly good steaks to ashes, he could actually make an OK meal.

When Arthur turned sixteen, their parents bought him a car. He drove Alfred and Matthew everywhere in it. Alfred often whined about how Arthur drove too slowly, too carefully. But Arthur always insisted that one could never be too careful.

Matthew started spending more time with his best friend, a Cuban boy that seemed to hate Alfred for some reason. Most of Alfred's friends were not out of the house too often aside from school, so Alfred kept spending time with Arthur.

The summer before Arthur went to university was when Alfred really started to worry about him. He had gotten a scholarship after publishing a successful novel in his junior year of high school. Arthur had never let his family read his book – not even Alfred – and they never really questioned that until they found out about where his scholarship came from. They had assumed it was for his outstanding grades until someone had found the acceptance letter for his scholarship. Suddenly the whole family wanted to know what he had written about. Even Alfred, who had never been much of a fan of reading, was begging Arthur to let him borrow his special author's print copy of the book. Arthur knew he couldn't keep saying no to Alfred for long, so he promised Alfred that he would let him have his special copy once he left for university in the fall.

As the summer got closer and closer to ending, Arthur seemed to get farther and farther away from the family. He never seemed to go out and spend time with anyone else; he just stayed in his room like a recluse. The only person he ever really spent time with anymore was Alfred. But he never drove Alfred anywhere any more, since by then Alfred had his own car and his own driver's license.

Whenever Alfred asked what was bothering him, Arthur always responded, "You'll know when you read my book." Alfred was never satisfied with this answer. He pressed Arthur for more, but the best response he got was, "I can't tell you. You'd never trust me again if you knew."

Alfred doubted he could ever distrust Arthur, who had done so much for him. He asked why Arthur would tell Alfred not to trust him; Arthur said he already knew Alfred wouldn't believe him.

A week before Arthur was supposed to leave for college, he got into an argument with his adopted parents, and ran out of the house into the rain. Alfred had waited until everyone went to sleep, then snuck out of the house. Matthew agreed to leave the window open for him when he came back.

Alfred found Arthur at the high school, cigarette in hand, soaking wet. Arthur looked up, seeming to sense Alfred's presence from across the street. Alfred ran across the street. Arthur stood and dropped the cigarette, and it fizzled out in a puddle before he was swept up into a crushing hug.

"I knew you would come." Arthur rubbed Alfred's back as best he could with his arms pinned to his sides.

"I was so worried about you! Why did you just leave like that?"

Arthur sighed. "Did you hear what we were arguing about?"

Alfred let go and stepped back. He shook his head. "No, I ran upstairs when I thought you were gonna fight. I hate fighting."

Arthur nodded, and gestured for Alfred to sit on the bench next to them. By now, neither of them cared about the rain any more.

"I was telling them about a friend of mine. Ludwig is his name. You've met him, I believe."

Alfred nodded. He remembered Ludwig, the German with no last name who seemed to be the only person who could climb the rock wall faster than him in Phys. Ed.

"Well, he's gay."

Alfred was surprised. The manly-man who seemed like he wasn't interested in _anyone_ was gay…? "I had no idea."

"Well, neither did I until he started dating Feliciano. But apparently your parents don't approve."

"Of what? Ludwig?"

Arthur nodded. "Specifically, Ludwig's sexuality. They.. think it's unnatural and wrong."

"They've never said anything about that to me."

"I didn't know either." Arthur sighed again. "It seems that everyone who's kind to me will always find something to hate."

"That's not true!" Alfred leaned towards Arthur. "I could never hate you!"

Arthur smiled slightly. "Thank goodness for small mercies," he said sarcastically.

"Hey!" Alfred laughed.

They stayed silent for a little while, just watching the rain. It had been a long time since they had spent time together this peacefully. Then Alfred turned back to Arthur.

"Hey, Artie?"

"Mm?"

"Why did you say that people will always find something to hate about you? I mean, I'm not defending what my parents said, it wasn't cool, but they didn't say anything against you, did they?"

"Well… er, no, but…"

"Then what did you mean?"

"Um… That is… I…" Arthur bit his lip. "You're sure you won't hate me? You'll still trust me after this?"

"Arthur…"

"Will you?"

Alfred turned serious. "I promise I'll still trust you. I'll never hate you."

"All right." Arthur took a deep breath. "I'm gay, too."

There was silence for a few moments.

"That's it?" Alfred asked.

"What?"

"I kinda guessed that. A while ago, really. I thought you were going to say you slept with little boys or something--"

Arthur's face turned red.

"…You don't screw little boys, do you?"

"Well…"

"_Oh my God, _Artie!That's fucking _gross_!"

"Alfred-"

"What the hell? You fuck _little boys_--"

"Alfred! Bloody _shut up_ for a second, will you?"

"_Little boys--_"

"_I don't fuck little boys!_" Arthur shouted.

"Um…"

"Now that that's settled…" Arthur hesitated, then turned away. "…Oh, I can't say it!"

"What?"

Arthur shook his head, then brought his knees up and hugged them to his chest.

"Arthur…" Alfred put a hand on Arthur's shoulder. Arthur tried to shake him off, but Alfred just held on tighter. "Please tell me." Arthur wouldn't respond.

Alfred thought, _It could only be either of two things…_

"Do you have a boyfriend you wanted them to meet?"

Arthur shook his head no. "I wish. It'd make a lot of things much easier."

_Oh. Well then. _"Then it's me?"

"Wha-"

"You're gay for me, aren't you?"

Arthur curled up tighter.

"You could have just told me. It's not like we're really related or anything, it's fine."

Arthur picked his head up and turned just enough to look at Alfred with the most confused face Alfred had ever seen on him.

"What? You think I'd break my promise?" Alfred smiled. "No way, a hero never breaks a promise."

"But, Alfred… I'm not… I'm ridiculously perverted! That doesn't bother you?"

Alfred's smile grew. "Well duh, of course you're perverted. You think I didn't already know that? Please. As if I didn't know what those weird sounds you made every night were." Arthur turned bright red once more. Alfred laughed loudly. "And, anyways, I'm bi. I never told anyone 'cause I didn't think it really mattered."

"Alfred, you don't have to try to make me feel better--"

"I'm not. Really, I'm OK with it."

"…Really?"

Alfred nodded. "Totally. In fact—" He leaned forward and hugged Arthur. "—I love it."

"Um…"

"I've kind of been hoping for it…"

"Alfred--"

"Shut up and kiss me already."

--

They stayed there all night, alternating between making out and wondering what other people would think of their relationship. They decided it didn't matter. They'd tell Matt, and their friends, and they would keep it from their parents as long as they could.

They eventually had to get home, though, when they noticed the sun was coming up. The rain had ended a couple hours earlier – "Shit, I wonder how Matt's doing. He said he'd leave the window open…" – and there were just a couple of small clouds left in the sky. They held hands on the walk home. It was too early for anyone to be awake to see them and report them to their parents, and even if it hadn't been, they didn't care anyways.

"I'll miss you when you go to college."

"Ah, right. College."

"You forgot?" Alfred laughed.

Arthur blushed. "Ah… My mind was elsewhere." He swung their interlinked hands.

"Well, yeah. I guess it would be." They had almost reached their street. Alfred let go of Arthur's hand and held his face, pulling him in for another kiss before they had to go home. "I love you," he whispered against Arthur's lips.

"Hmmm…" Arthur laughed, then pulled back. "Come on, we have to get back before your parents notice you're gone and I didn't come back. They might start to suspect us."

"Pfft. Let them. I ain't afraid of 'em."

"I could smack you for that."

"Whatever." He leaned in for one more kiss and then dragged Arthur back to the house. Alfred went up to the house, under the still-open window and did his "eagle call," which really sounded more like a dying cat but Arthur wasn't going to complain as long as they got back into the house unnoticed. Their parents seemed to only wake up if there were loud noises inside the house.

Matthew came up to the window, rubbing his eyes. He had forgotten to put his glassed on, and squinted at the pair before going to grab them. He reached an arm out, and Alfred crouched down and cupped his hands. "C'mon, Artie."

"Oh, _hell_ no--"

"Oh, come on. We've done this before."

"Yes, and I damn near broke my neck."

Alfred rolled his eyes. "Hurry up, already."

Arthur opened his mouth to protest, but then just decided to go with it. He put a hand on Alfred's shoulder and a foot in his hands, and jumped. Alfred lifted him up to the window with ease, and Matthew grabbed Arthur's hand and pulled him up. Arthur turned to ask how Alfred would get inside, but Matthew grabbed him and pulled him out of the way just in time for Alfred's hands to appear on the windowsill. He pulled himself in, and Arthur just stood in shock. "How did you do that?"

"I jumped."

"You _jumped_?"

Alfred shrugged and rubbed his hands together. "Basketball."

"Ah." Arthur nodded.

Matthew went over to Alfred and put a hand on his shoulder. "So," he said quietly, "Did you guys finally resolve your sexual tension?"

Arthur was shocked. "Wha-!"

Alfred laughed. "For a guy who can't even make himself noticed half the time, you're pretty perceptive."

"Alfred!"

"Relax, we were gonna tell him anyways."

"Well yeah, but--"

"Arthur," Matthew cut him off. "I've known for forever. It wasn't much of a secret, to tell you the truth. And now you'll get to have wonderful, gay adventures together, eh?" He laughed.


	5. USxUK Celebration

"We always thought you'd be first!" That was what they always said.

It was definitely true the first time someone had said it. It was Spain, and there wasn't anyone who heard him that disagreed. And he hadn't been saying it only about the two of them; he had named a few more people who he thought would have gotten on with it before Romano and himself. America had laughed then, still under the impression that everyone was joking, trying to make fun of his gullibility or England's stubbornness. He had found out that night that it wasn't a joke.

Apparently Japan had found something out that night too, because only a few weeks later he had been the next one to say that line, and then once again a year after that. America had wondered if he had really meant it, because he and Greece had always been so obviously close, and Greece had always been chasing after Japan that it was inevitable. But he had just brushed it off and gone back to England, to save him from further alcohol poisoning, as well as from the very eager hands of France.

Over the years – the many, many years – the phrase had been repeated more times than either of them could count on their own. Each time it had lost meaning exponentially, and eventually it just became a joke between them, the same way that "idiot" and "old man" became terms of endearment.

It was only when Italy had said it, smiling the biggest smile of his entire life, that it really hit America how much each person had really meant it.

He had said it almost privately – Germany was being dragged onto the dance floor by Prussia, who, wearing a dress, insisted that as his only family he would have to do the honors of a "mother-son dance" for Germany. Italy hadn't been subjected to any such torture, and had been conversing with America, who was waiting for England to get their presents from the hotel.

"This is a really nice wedding."

"Thank you!" Italy beamed. "France helped us with it. He said he'd make it perfect, and he kept his promise, I think."

"Yeah, it's really awesome!" America leaned back in his chair and relaxed. He wouldn't have to worry about Italy becoming a bridezilla or something like that. "I was really surprised when I got the invitation; I never thought you guys would actually get around to it."

"Ve, we always thought you'd be first!"

"Yeah, yeah." America laughed.

"No, really! I didn't think Germany would ever ask me to marry him again."

"Whaaa? Again?"

"Oh," Italy blushed. "Yeah. He asked me… a really long time ago, by mistake. He thought we were dating and we weren't, really… It's a long story." He nodded. "But I always thought that, even if everyone else beat you and England, at least we would be after you! But we weren't, so… Well, it doesn't matter. As long as you're happy!"

"Yeah, well…"

"…You are happy, aren't you?"

America stared. Italy had a quizzical look on his face that seemed to contrast wildly with the atmosphere around him.

"America?"

He smiled. It didn't quite reach his eyes. "Don't worry, I'm happy."

"Tell the truth."

America sighed. "Okay, it's like this; England's always been there for me, y'know? He's always made it about what I want, the whole time we've been together. I don't know why. I used to think it had something to do with the Revolution, back at the very beginning, but I know it's not. So… I want him to ask me. I want it to be what he wants."

"America…"

"It's not that I don't want to marry him. I'm really… pretty neutral on it. I don't _have_ to marry him. I don't have some burning need to marry him to keep myself alive or anything. I would be totally happy the way things are now." He hesitated. "But, I guess, if he asked me… I mean, I wouldn't say _no…_"

"So you do want to marry him."

America shrugged. "It's not totally out of the question."

Italy nodded. "That's now I felt, too. Germany made everything about me, and ever since he met me he's been helping me so much. I knew he'd take _forever_ to finally ask me to marry him, and I really wanted to. But I waited, and he did ask, and sooner than I expected." He was back to smiling. "So, you just wait! He'll ask you soon enough! In fact, there he is now!" Italy pointed over to the gift table by the door. England was trying to find a place to put their gift; he eventually settled on putting the tiny box behind a much larger one and pushing the large one in the way.

"He got back much faster than I expected," Italy commented. "Didn't he walk to the hotel?"

"Yeah." America smirked. "I'll see 'ya later!"

"Good luck!"

"Heh, yeah." He went over to England and, with a surprise that he would never have achieved in any quieter of an atmosphere than that one, he hugged England from behind. England jumped in his arms, then relaxed when he realized he wasn't being groped by France, who hadn't stopped his habit even after his own (extremely surprising) wedding.

"Hello, America."

"Hey."

"Do you think they'll like the car?" he asked sarcastically.

America laughed. "I still can't believe you got them one of those. You paid, what, two million Euros?"

"Idiot. I don't pay in _Euros_."

"Pounds. Whatever. Point is, I bet I owe you a lot of money."

"No, it's fine. Don't worry about it." He turned around in America's arms and hugged him.

America pulled away. "What? Fuck, Iggy, you paid _two million pounds. _I'm not gonna just sit back and watch you spend that much money on a wedding gift."

"Jesus, America, it's not like I spent the whole treasury or anything --"

"That money could go to education or something!"

"You agreed to it."

"Only 'cause I thought you'd let me pay you back!"

England shook his head. "I'm not having this conversation with you, America."

"Then what conversation _are_ you having?"

England scowled and grabbed America's arm, pulling him across the room. When America tried to protest, England said decisively, "Outside, now."

America didn't argue with the order, and just followed England, their hands swinging between them. They reached the open doors to the balcony. A breeze blew the curtains around, still warm during the summer night. America opened his mouth to ask why they were outside when England shoved a box under his nose.

"Fuck, don't tell me you got me one, too--" The box was the same size as the one they had used for the key.

"No, you idiot. I'm asking you to marry me."

"Oh. Um." America was at a loss for words. Had Italy and England secretly been plotting together?

"Well? Are you going to or not?"

America moved his eyes from the box to England. He was looking away, out to the Mediterranean Sea visible from the balcony. He was blushing, and looked more nervous than America had seen him since World War Two.

England sighed, his shoulders dropping in defeat. "Alright, then." He moved his arm back slightly and started to turn.

America grabbed his wrist. "Yes."

"Pardon?"

"Yes. Fuck yes." He took the box from England's hand and extracted the ring. It was a simple silver band, a stark contrast to the expensive, nearly antique car England had just driven over to the wedding.

"Ah – it has 'Our Special Relationship' engraved on the inside…"

America smiled. "So you _did_ believe me when I said the Relationship never died."

"Of course. We were still together."

"Yeah." America slid the ring on. "Well, Italy was right."

"Hm?"

"He said you'd ask me soon. And you did. I should probably tell him."

"No, let him be. He's probably left with Germany already, if he's anything like his brother."

"True, that." He smirked. "You wanna ditch?"

"Nothing would make me happier."


	6. USxUK Chords

This is set in the same AU scenario as "Adventure" (aka "What The Fuck Have I Done?"). It's less of a sequel than an expansion on their past in that AU, but it makes more sense if you read that one first. This is basically just like "Adventure"; a bunch of interconnected vignettes, all about pretty much the same thing, with some actual story at the end.

I'd recommend reading this on LiveJournal (there's a link to the community on my profile) because there's a song in it that I had to take out to put this here. I think it reads better with the song.

000

The only thing Arthur brought with him upon adoption, aside from his clothing, was a guitar that he said was given to him by one of the caretakers in his orphanage before he retired. It was an old acoustic, slightly too big for him, and with a crack in it that was held together by duct tape. He didn't have a pick for it; he had just let his fingernails grow long enough that he could use them for the same purpose. He played both right- and left-handed, whichever way he picked up the guitar.

He couldn't read music. He had taught himself to play, and was used to playing by ear. He could pick out the tune to any song, but could never read notes, or write them down. He learned eventually, from one of teachers at the middle school, but he usually kept to his memory. He said that notes tied him down, and using his own judgment made the music sound more natural.

For the first year or so, before Arthur was used to his new home, he would often shut himself in his bedroom and play for hours. He never realized that Alfred would always sit outside the door and listen to him play. Alfred liked it best when Arthur sang. Arthur didn't have a great singing voice, but he got the notes right and put so much passion into whatever he sang that the cracking high notes and overly quiet low notes didn't bother him.

By the time Arthur became comfortable enough with his new family to bring his guitar down to the family room to play, Alfred was obsessed. He would sit on the stairs and watch in awe, until one day Arthur stopped playing, looked straight at Alfred, came and sat next to him, and went on playing right there on the steps.

Alfred was required to take either choir, drama, or an instrument during middle school, and he decided on taking violin. His parents didn't think it fit him, but he insisted on it. He practiced at home well into the night, always with the reason that he wanted to "be as awesome as Arthur" at an instrument. It worked eventually; by his freshman year in high school he was playing at the same level as the seniors, and joining Arthur in near-daily practice.

Matthew would always joke that they should start a band, since they loved playing so much. Arthur suggested he join them on piano once, and he did, but just that once. Alfred kept asking him to come back and practice with them again, but Matt always said he felt like he didn't fit in with them, and that he had "joined the party a little too late".

Alfred dropped orchestra, though, in his sophomore year, in favor of an elective that would help him reach his dream job of becoming an astronaut, and because he took up sports and felt he didn't have enough time to practice an instrument any more. He kept the violin, though, and managed to still play with Arthur sometimes, but not for the long hours every day they used to do.

He missed it. He missed being able to sit with his brother-from-another-mother and play some of his favorite songs for hours. Arthur still played on his own, since he did all of his own homework in school and claimed to do better on tests without studying, and he was a senior anyways, and had caught Senioritis just like every other graduating student. Alfred could hear the music through the wall their bedrooms shared, only slightly muffled. It didn't bother him. He was so used to hearing Arthur play that he almost tuned it out.

He still spent more time with Arthur than with anyone else. He was the first to find out that Arthur had gotten a full scholarship to a university on the other side of the ocean. He would never admit to it afterwards, but Alfred broke down crying when Arthur said he had already decided to go. Arthur wanted to go back to England, even if only for the four years he'd spend in college. Alfred didn't ever want him to leave. He'd be losing his best friend. Alfred loved Matthew and all of his friends from school, but Arthur was the person he could share anything with. Arthur never judged him - not seriously, at least; always sarcastically.

And he was leaving. At first, Alfred took it as a personal insult, as if Arthur didn't like him anymore and was leaving to get away from him. He didn't show it, but he got angrier every day that it got closer to Arthur leaving.

Alfred was a good actor. He had been hiding any emotion he'd had other than happiness for years. Arthur still noticed Alfred's change in attitude around him, but didn't say anything. He got distant from everyone, and it just made Alfred worry more that Arthur hated him. It didn't help that Arthur wouldn't let Alfred see the book he had written, the one that got him that scholarship.

Alfred lost it. He just up and left one day, drove to God-knows-where, and all he said on his way out was, "I hope you're happy, Arthur." He didn't come back until the dark hours of the next morning.

He didn't see that Arthur stayed awake, waiting to make sure he got back safely. He didn't see Arthur come almost out to the hall as he passed by his room, or how he turned away and covered his face when he noticed Alfred smelled like blood and had something wrapped around his arm, or how he ran back into the darkness of his room as Alfred walked into the bathroom to take a shower. All Alfred noticed was Arthur crying an hour later, hearing him through their shared wall as he had heard his guitar so many times.

Matthew woke up when Alfred came in. "You're a dick," he said, and turned back toward the opposite wall. That kind of blunt anger was rare from Matthew; the few times he did show his anger always turned into long rants about everything that was wrong with Alfred. This - the cold shoulder and a spontaneous all-encompassing stab to the soul - hurt more than any thought out insult.

Alfred got up and grabbed his violin out of the corner on impulse. Not bothering to knock on the closed (but unlocked, always unlocked for Alfred) door, he just walked into Arthur's room - he probably wouldn't have let him in otherwise. He sat down and started to tune the violin. He hadn't played in months and the strings sounded terrible.

He didn't have any song in mind, and just played whatever came to mind, not really caring if his parents woke up. They'd probably just be happy that he was home.

"I haven't done this in a while. Played for you, I mean. I miss it."

"Why… Why did you think I'd be happy if… if you left?"

Alfred felt like he had just been kicked in the stomach, and not entirely because he had been earlier. The violin screeched, and he rested it on the bed. He'd forgotten that he said that.

"Answer me."

"I thought you were going back to England because you didn't like me anymore." It was then that it hit him how stupid that sounded.

"You're such a child."

"Sarcasm doesn't work when you're trying to hold back from crying."

"Shut it." He attempted to punch Alfred's arm, but stopped when he saw the bandage on it. "Who did you get in a fight with?"

"Matt's friend. The Cuban guy."

"Hm." Arthur sat up and started unwrapping the bandage.

"Agh! Stop it-"

"You didn't scream before, so I'll assume you didn't disinfect it. I'm not about to let you get your arm amputated because of a stupid fight. How deep is it?"

Alfred almost didn't take Arthur seriously - he still had tear-tracks on his cheeks - but he thought better of it. "Pretty deep. He ran like hell when he did that. Probably didn't even mean to cut me that bad. Since when do you keep disinfectant in your room?"

"Since I realized that I don't want you seeing my injuries after I lose my temper at the wrong people. Now hold still and keep talking."

"About what?"

"Anything. You're good at that." There was that sarcasm that Alfred had missed so much.

Alfred shifted uncomfortably. He could talk, sure, but only when he had something to say. "Um…"

Arthur sighed. "Tell me about what you were doing while you were gone."

"Um, well, I went to the school first… "

"Mm-hmm…"

"I just sort of passed by and then went to the park and walked around for an hour or so. Kiku showed up with Heracles and I didn't really want to talk to them so I left before they saw me. I started walking around for a while and ended up on the other side of town-" He hissed loudly when Arthur pressed a hand towel, damp with rubbing alcohol, to his arm.

"You'll need stitches on this," Arthur said, pulling back the towel to wrap a clean bandage around Alfred's arm. "I'll take you to the hospital tomorrow."

"That really stung…"

"You could thank me."

"Thanks. But it still stung."

"Oh, stop being such a child. Go to bed already."

"Okay. On one condition…"

"What's that?"

Alfred held up his violin. "You're playing with me tomorrow."

"You're the one who always says he doesn't have time."

"Please?"

"Fine."

"Awesome!"

"It's not for you, though. I just want to practice with someone."

"Uh-huh. Sure. 'Night, Arthur."

"Goodnight."


End file.
